We are talking of holes, mere lack of matter
Subsisting in matter and surrounded by it 
Of words that exist in crevices of thoughts,
Words  making the world’s holes in whole.

My dead are matter in lack of it, globe-earths
Those spin in lack of space, in crisp night air.
They spin in the space of time, holes in space,
Phosphorus glow-worms roaming thin nights.

They are holes in space, where they had  lived.
They are now words that will live in  thoughts,
Those remain in my mind, as images of reality
Till I become a hole in space, a picture, a word.




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